Half My Life
by rslhilson
Summary: When House gives Wilson ten days to get laid, Wilson gives himself ten days to get over House.
1. Preface

_Half My Life_

_ Preface_

**Author's Note: **I was reading Tom Stoppard's _The Invention of Love _(for which Wilson – I mean, RSL – won a Tony Award :D) and came across an AE Housman poem that broke my poor Hilson heart. Of course, fanfiction ensued. Set post-"You Must Remember This" but ignores the events of "Two Stories" and onward (because all of that "I need you" Huddy nonsense was too much for me to bear).

* * *

_He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?  
__He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.  
__I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,  
__And went with half my life about my ways.  
-_ AE Housman

The way Wilson sees it, House is giving him an ultimatum.

When he'd said that he needed more time, he'd really meant an eternity. House might think that this is all about Sam, but that's like diagnosing a malignant tumor as a common cold. This isn't about a desperate fling with his ex-wife, this is about _love_ – pure, unadulterated, rip-my-heart-out-and-tear-it-to-shreds unrequited love, and there's no limit to how long it takes to get over _that. _There are too many unanswered questions, too many regrets, too many what ifs and what could have beens. He's always going to need just a little more time, because House is always going to be just a little more than a best friend.

House is half his life.

He used to think that, in his own way, he'd once been half of House's life, too, but the new attentions of a certain Dean of Medicine have since erased any hopes of that. And when the ultimatum hits, Wilson's not even sure he understands what's at stake.

"I'll give you ten days."

There's a moment, somewhere between getting lost in the way House's blue shirt brings out the color of his eyes and registering what's just gone down, when Wilson almost says it – the forbidden truth, the unthinkable three words that aren't supposed to be said. Not by him; not to this man. It's only one of a thousand times that they've hinged on the tip of his tongue, and only one of a thousand times that he's forced himself to swallow them whole.

He can't even look at House anymore. His eyes stray to the ceiling and the cabinets along the wall, anywhere but at the suffocating brilliant blue that's threatening to drown him. _Ten days, or else. _Or else, what? How can House possibly punish him for not getting laid in ten days? And why does he even fucking care?

But if there's anything Wilson's learned, it's to stop obsessing over what House may or may not do. So he collects himself, catches his breath. Remembers that it's all just part of the routine.

"Fine," he finally agrees, meeting House's eyes again, but whatever reply is forming in House's brain is interrupted by a throaty meow.

They watch as Sarah devours the mouse, a particularly large grimace on Wilson's face. He wonders if, in some ways, his own life is about to meet the same fate.

"Let's shake on it," House says suddenly.

Wilson, surprised, peels his eyes away from the massacre. "Don't you trust me?"

"Just wanna be sure you'll keep your end of the deal."

"House, I don't even know what _your _end of the deal is."

But House doesn't answer, and Wilson knows better than to try and pry one out of him. Instead, he takes the outstretched hand in front of him, realizing that their fingers haven't touched since House had gripped them during the infarction.

In his mind, he makes a mental note to remember what they feel like.

* * *

Later that night, a tired Wilson lies quietly on the couch, Sarah snuggling contentedly into his chest as he absently weaves his fingers through her fur.

Ten days. He'd decided, after watching House limp out the front door following a phone call from Cuddy, that he could make his own challenge out of this. House is giving him ten days to get back into the dating scene, but it isn't as simple as hitting on hot women in a bar – they both know that. In his own roundabout way, House is giving him ten days to get over whatever miserable crap is bothering him – ten days to be happy again – and that's a goal that Wilson is more than eager to reach.

It's really more of a necessity than anything else. He can't live like this anymore, can't keep fucking up his life because his heart refuses to let go. It's why he's been divorced three times, why he clung so desperately to Amber, why he spontaneously proposed to a woman for whom he couldn't have been more wrong. Ruining a marriage because you're too busy running to House in the middle of the night is easy. Loving a woman because she's quintessentially House is easy. Desperately trying to re-marry your ex-wife because you're trying to make House jealous is easy.

But it's living, really living, that's hard. And if he hasn't been able to get over House in twenty years, how the hell is he supposed to get over him in ten days?

He doesn't know, but he has to try. If House can find love with Cuddy and turn his life around, then Wilson can do the same. Starting tomorrow, the creation of Wilson 2.0 commences.

Exhausted, Wilson closes his eyes, his heavy hand sinking deeper into Sarah's fur. Vaguely, he imagines that the soft warmth against his skin is scruffy brown hair tinged with streaks of grey, and soon the gentle comfort of Sarah's purring lulls him to sleep.

* * *

_TBC_


	2. Day 1

_Half My Life_

_ Day 1_

On day 1, Wilson decides to go cold turkey.

There are no Mayfields for broken hearts, no nicotine patches or five-step miracle programs, but he can go it on his own. He's seen it happen before: you tell a man that the spot on his lung isn't a tumor _yet_, and he's moved enough to throw his last pack of cigarettes in the trash and quit right then and there. With enough motivation, people can quit anything – or any_one_.

There's a dark corner, deep into the farthest reaches of his mind that not even House can access, that he likes to think of as his mental shoebox. Everyone has one in one way or another, even if their term for it is different or they choose not to acknowledge it at all. It's the warehouse of painful memories and broken dreams, the burial ground of lost hopes and faded fantasies. House had built a wall around his with Vicodin and booze, but Wilson likes to fold his emotional sorrows neatly together, like a pile of old clothes that he doesn't yet want to discard. His mental shoebox is already quite full, most of it occupied by images of Danny's smile and the final fluttering of Amber's eyelids, but for House, he can make an exception. He always does.

As he selects his work attire from his closet – carefully opting for any color but blue – he rears in the necessary recollections and impossible desires. Quietly but deftly, he stows them away, the mental shoebox pushed gently beneath the surface. But the lid is bulging, and he's not sure how much longer he'll be able to go before it bursts.

And as he shuffles out of the bedroom, adjusting his tie and rolling up his shirtsleeves as per his usual routine, he spots it.

_Crap. _

Stupid organ. Stupid, stupid organ with its stupid beautiful craftsmanship and stupid beautiful music and stupid ugly reminders of how alone he really is.

Glancing quickly around the living room for a solution, he pulls a folded blanket from the sofa and drapes it haphazardly over the instrument to hide it from view. _A problem delayed is a problem denied._

Oh, hell. Who is he even kidding?

Life: 1. Wilson: 0.

And the shoebox cover inches slightly off its hinges.

* * *

Addicts intending to quit are supposed to find ways to distract themselves from their withdrawal symptoms. Keep busy, the experts say: listen to music, exercise, do the crossword puzzle or play a game of scrabble.

So Wilson does what he does best. Wilson works.

With a quick call to his assistant, he reorganizes his schedule into a tighter cluster of rounds and other patient interactions – mainly in peds, where House will be less likely to venture to find him. No time for lunch, no time for paperwork, no time to sit around in his office and give House an excuse to poke his head through the door.

Sandy had been skeptical. "Are you sure, Dr. Wilson? You won't even have time to eat."

But Wilson would rather starve and come home with aching feet than be dragged back off the wagon on his first day. If he's going cold turkey, he needs to do it right. The damn turkey is going to be frozen solid by the time the day is over.

"I'm just in a productive mood today. And do me a favor, Sandy – try to keep House out of the loop? Thanks."

Even entering the building is a challenge. He walks quickly past the clinic, hoping to avoid run-ins with Cuddy and by association the diagnostician whose name he'd rather avoid saying from here on out.

_Like Voldemort_, Wilson thinks with a hidden smile, relieved at the successful start to his day. With a quick voicemail check and switch into his white doctor's coat, he's off to Oncology.

It's easy to get lost in the world of his patients – that's nothing new for Wilson. Caring has always come naturally to him, but there's something about immersing himself in their pain that helps him to forget his own. He takes comfort in it sometimes, often without even noticing, and the realization later leaves him feeling ashamed. But today, he lets himself be swept away, never mind the moral consequences. Surely his acceptance of a bleak future alone is enough to warrant just a little self-pity.

By the time he makes his way back to his office, he feels lighter than he has in ages (his lack of lunch a minor detail that he'd rather discount), and even considers treating himself to a nice dinner out as a reward. An entire day without He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named – he'd actually, successfully, gone cold turkey.

But the moment he opens the door, the bird begins to thaw.

"'Bout time, Wonder Boy. Talk about a superhero schedule."

Wilson closes his eyes in a lame attempt to shield his _oh, fuck_ reaction. "Seriously, House?"

"What, did you think you could avoid me all day?"

Defeated, Wilson shuffles over to his desk, dropping his files into a haphazard pile and plopping exhaustedly into his chair. "I actually thought I might."

House snorts. "Your incompetent moron of an assistant told me to stay away from you. Said you were stressed and needed a break. And of course you practically scheduled your entire day in peds – nice touch."

Wilson doesn't answer, too busy wondering how he could be such an idiotic fool. It doesn't matter what he does – he can't avoid House forever. A drug-free day is worth nothing if you come back at night to another hearty mouthful of pills.

"So," House continues, choosing to ignore Wilson's silence. "Cuddy's got the brainless twerp tonight, which means _I've_ got no sex and no food. You hungry, or were you planning to fulfill your 10-day vow early?"

Life: ∞. Wilson: 0. New plan: imminent.

And the mental shoebox erupts.

* * *

_TBC_


	3. Day 2

_Half My Life_

_Day 2_

On day 2, Wilson allows himself to reminisce.

The shoebox is open and his plan for immediate withdrawal has obviously failed, so it seems he ought to at least try the opposite approach. It can't hurt to wallow in things a bit, to seek clarity in rumination, to let memories drift into his consciousness and take over the reality of today.

The reality of today is that House is spending the afternoon on Wilson's couch, apparently payback for trying to avoid him yesterday. He's also apparently hiding from Cuddy for some stupid stunt that he pulled in the clinic this morning, but Wilson doesn't press him about it. It's probably something he'd rather not know about, and he's already had his fair share of Cuddy conversations for one miserable lifetime.

So instead, he watches House out of the corner of his eye, the diagnostician unusually quiet save for the oversized tennis ball that he's tossing into the air and against the wall. It's aggravating the headache that Wilson has had since he woke up this morning, but there's something so comforting about the familiarity of House's contemplative expression that he doesn't want to ruin it. As everyone comes to learn, when House needs to concentrate, it's best not to interrupt.

And what House wants – and especially what House needs – Wilson always gives.

* * *

_When Wilson first meets House, he's completely drunk._

"_You can thank me later," the stranger harrumphs, his gruff voice tinged with amusement. He takes Wilson by the arm, steadying his wobbly gait as they leave the jailhouse. "I'm Greg, by the way. You can call me House."_

_Wilson can barely mumble his own name in response, and the man called House rolls his eyes._

"_They gave me your name when I bailed you out. James Evan Wilson – talk about unfortunate initials." They stop by a car presumably belonging to House, who jiggles his keys in his free hand. "They feed you in that place? Because I'm hungry and totally broke, thanks to you. Buy me a burger?"_

_Even then, drunk off his ass and completely out of his mind, Wilson can't find it in him to say no._

* * *

"This is the worst case ever," House mumbles, and Wilson blinks away the memory.

"Symptoms?" he asks, collecting himself.

"I said it was a case, not a patient."

Wilson winces, rubbing his temples to try to ease his headache. He's too tired for House's mind games. His failure to go cold turkey yesterday hadn't exactly been conducive to sleep, and he's pretty sure he only got a couple of hours' worth before the beeping of his alarm clock had signaled the start of Day 2.

"Cuddy needs to get off my ass," House clarifies, seemingly oblivious to Wilson's discomfort. "She's a case all on her freakin' own."

"What did you even do in the clinic today?"

"Doesn't matter. She's my girlfriend. She's supposed to forgive me no matter what, love me unconditionally, yadda yadda yadda."

"House, _nothing_ is ever unconditional with you."

The diagnostician considers this. "Always the voice of reason," he mutters at last, then allows his voice to perk up. "At least _you'll _never leave me, Jimmy," he grins, and goes back to tossing his ball.

Wilson just wants to put his head down and die.

* * *

_When Wilson first sees the scar, he almost vomits all over Stacy's hundred-dollar shoes._

_Ignoring her apology for not calling him sooner, he asks House if he wants him to stay. The abrupt, pain-filled nod is all it takes to glue Wilson to his seat._

_But Stacy never finds the same answer in House's unforgiving eyes, and when the bitter blue is finally enough to drive her away, House angrily predicts that Wilson is going to leave him to die in this hellhole, too._

_It's not the first time House is wrong, and it certainly won't be the last._

_But it _is_ the first time Wilson realizes that he's in love with House._

* * *

"It was this guy with a rectal bleed," House finally relents. "It was hilarious. I – "

Wilson quickly snaps out of his reverie to hold up his hand in horror, signaling House to stop. "Forget I even asked."

House rolls his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be the mature one? Look, point is, she completely overreacted."

"And I suppose it's too much to expect her boyfriend to act like an adult?"

"Um, _yeah_." House cocks his head forward and raises his eyebrows in his usual _duh _expression. "It is when her boyfriend is _me_."

Wilson shrugs, not particularly interested in where this conversation is going. All this talking is starting to make his throat hurt, and it's certainly not doing anything for his headache. "So talk to her about it," he advises weakly. "I don't know what else to tell you, House."

House is quiet for a moment, doing that frowning-scanning thing that Wilson hates. It always makes him feel like he's going through airport security, and House's eyes are the ever-observant x-ray machine.

"Since you're obviously coming down with something and feeling like shit," House finally says, his diagnostic skills overlooking nothing, "you're off the hook for today. But it seems that your Wonder Boy days of advice have already peaked."

He stands from the couch and limps across the room, the tennis ball stuffed under his armpit as his other hand grips his cane. "Shame," he says as he opens the door to leave. "You always used to say the _darndest _things."

* * *

_When Wilson first tries to tell him, House interrupts before he can reach the forbidden threshold._

"_House, I was wondering…I mean...there's something I wanted to say – "_

"_Save it," House mutters. "Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it. Shit, Wilson, where _is _it?"_

"_Where's what?" Wilson asks, his voice tense. He doesn't want to get distracted, doesn't want to lose his momentum before it's too late. He can't explain why the urge to say it has overtaken him now, at this moment, but it seems as good a time as any to tell him that he loves him. Maybe it's House's continued heartbreak at Stacy's abandonment, and maybe it's Wilson waiting for his role as House's caregiver to finally push his precarious marriage off the edge. Whatever the case, all he wants to do is let his heart be free of the burden and maybe, just maybe, take away some of House's pain._

_But House is storming around the apartment, his agonizing limp so routine that Wilson is almost scared by how much he no longer notices. The precious Vicodin is finally found underneath the coffee table, and House doesn't seem to care how much it hurts to bend down and snatch the bottle from the floor._

"_I'm not an addict," he snaps, emptying the pills into his palm. "I'm in pain."_

"_I didn't say anything," Wilson points out, but House is no longer listening._

_Wilson isn't sure he ever will._

* * *

_TBC_


	4. Day 3

_Half My Life_

_Day 3_

**Author's Note (beware of spoilers for "Bombshells"): **'Ello, fellow Hilsonites! So it seems that the ending of "Bombshells" has changed some things (woohoo! *happy dance*), but I kinda-sorta planned this fic around the sad assumption that Huddy exists (oops). As such, I still intend to keep writing as if everything post-"You Must Remember This" has yet to occur. This unfortunately may make some aspects of the story seem obsolete, so I'd understand if Huddy canon fics, while Hilson-centric, are no longer readers' cup of tea.

Anywho…for those of you who are still with me (you guys are awesome :D)…onward we go!

* * *

On day 3, Wilson is sick.

_Sick in more ways than one, _he thinks miserably. He's huddled beneath a blanket on the couch, Sarah curled up beside him as he tries to focus on his laptop screen. His oncoming cold seems to have settled in overnight, leaving him congested and slightly feverish, and he knows he can't blame the ragweed this time. His earlier call to Cuddy had been out of sheer professionalism, but even that left him feeling more heartsick than before.

"Stop apologizing," she'd chided, though not unkindly. "You're not Superman, Wilson. You're allowed to get sick every once in a while. Do you need me to stop by later and bring you anything?"

While some soup probably would have been nice, he'd declined her offer. He knows that she genuinely meant it out of friendship, but the last thing he needs on top of his physical and emotional disarray is the object of House's love to come swooping through the door. Instead, after another call to his neighbor-turned-cat-sitter to let her know that he'd be home today, he'd settled onto the couch with a blanket, a mug of tea, and an inbox of unopened e-mails to sort through.

Not surprisingly, his pathetic attempt at working eventually leads to closing his laptop with a heavy sigh, gently nudging Sarah to the floor, and stretching out across the length of the couch with his arm over his eyes. He briefly wonders if this counts as a sick day off from this so-called 10-day challenge, but it doesn't take long to remember that House would see no reason not to infect hookers with cold germs.

Stupid bastard, able to spot a cold within seconds but unable to detect Wilson's feelings for twenty years.

Patients always like to complain that their doctors don't "give" them enough – not enough time, not enough scrutiny, not enough information. They come in with a runny nose and leave with instructions for fluids and rest, and because their suspicions of the Black Plague were ignored, their misery is only bolstered by dissatisfaction. But there's a reason why House insists on breaking into patients' homes, on questioning every so-called truth. Between lying and mere forgetfulness, there's so much that goes unsaid, and diagnoses are only as good as the information that the patient provides.

So Wilson, for twenty Godforsaken years, had tried to give House the information he needed.

It wasn't just the little hints that could easily be taken as mere tokens of friendship – things like monster trucks, and after-work beers, and all of the lunches and dinners for which he'd never been reimbursed. It wasn't even just the verbal clues, spontaneous outbursts of _"Why not date you?_" and marriage proposals that the forlorn depressive in him had automatically laced with deceitful sarcasm. All of that had played its own role, but Wilson, ever the hopeless romantic, had always hoped that the mere act of sticking around might be enough.

Nothing's changed, really. Even now, couch-ridden in a sickly daze as House is off gallivanting with Cuddy or whatever the hell it is he's doing, Wilson knows that all it would take is one phone call and the slightest sign of distress for him to go running to House's side.

_Case in point_, he thinks bitterly as his cell phone begins to vibrate on the coffee table. With a groan, he eases himself up to answer it, clearing his throat before he speaks.

"Hello?" he says hoarsely.

"You still alive over there? The love of my life tells me that the _other _love of my life may need some tender loving care."

Wilson winces. Leave it to House to say all the right things, which simultaneously happen to be all the _wrong _things. "Your sudden concern is touching."

"What're friends for?" House sighs. "Look, Cuddy tells me you're sick, I tell her I don't care, she tells me I'm a jackass, and I realize that this does not bode well for little Greg tonight. By this brilliant chain of logical reasoning, I call."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "I'm feeling just peachy, thanks for asking."

"If you need someone to bring you soup and self-righteous mothering, I'll send Masters. If you need someone to bring you porn, on the other hand…"

"Goodbye, House."

"Wilson."

Wilson pauses, his hand poised to click the phone shut. "Yeah?"

"Are you really okay?"

His heart and stomach twist into a familiar clench. It's moments like these that he lives for, those fleeting instances of raw, genuine care that few in House's network of acquaintances have earned the right to receive. He wishes he could be in House's office right now and catch the momentary darkening of his eyes, the slight dip of his head, the nearly imperceptible furrow of his brow. He remembers the greatest of these gifts, how _"If you die, I'm alone_" had left him completely bewildered and yet strangely at peace, and in an effort to relive the moment he clings desperately to the words he's just heard.

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks, House."

He can almost see the curt nod on the other end of the line, signaling the return to House's usual guarded demeanor.

"Okay," Wilson hears, and the call comes to an end.

Taking a deep breath, he tosses the phone on the coffee table and lies down again, too tired to protest when Sarah returns to curl into a ball on his stomach.

"At least _you're _here," he murmurs, and lets his exhaustion pull him into sleep.

* * *

_TBC_


	5. Day 4

_Half My Life_

_Day 4_

On day 4, Wilson is _really_ sick.

He can barely breathe, his fever is God knows how high, and he's pretty sure the only other way to contract this kind of sore throat is to swallow a gallon of gasoline. Even though it's probably just the cold from Hell, Type C flu isn't that much of a stretch. He knows he should really get checked out, but that would require getting out of bed…and that's not happening anytime soon.

Aside from being fairly certain that he's dying, he's also decided that he hates House.

Not a lot of thought has gone into this – his brain isn't up to much as it is – but it's how he feels at the moment, and he won't apologize for it. Not now, anyway; not when he's too sick and tired to do anything but lie miserably under the covers and hate random things. He hates being sick, he hates the way Sarah keeps nudging his feet at the edge of the bed, he hates life in general, and he definitely hates House.

And why shouldn't he? Everyone _else _thinks the man is a complete asshole. For every trait that Wilson supposedly loves, there must be at least ten more that he can hate.

For instance, he hates the way House is always barging into his office like it's his own personal kingdom, never mind that Wilson is actually trying to do that apparently unnecessary thing called work. (And never mind that it's always his favorite part of the day).

And he hates the way House is always taking his food, no matter how many "Property of James Wilson" labels he sticks onto his Tupperware. (Forget the fact that it makes him smile to know that House actually enjoys his cooking, and that he'll whip up extra macadamia nut pancakes for this purpose alone).

He also hates the way House never shaves. That amount of perpetually untamed scruff is inexcusable – just buy a freakin' razor and _shave _like every other adult male, for goodness sakes. (Of course, said scruff does make him really, really sexy, but that's beside the point).

God, his fever must be _insanely _high.

He hears his phone vibrating again on the nightstand and groans, pulling the covers over the top of his head. It's at least the fifth time today, and since most work-related issues usually go through his office landline, he's pretty sure he knows exactly who's refusing to be ignored.

Only he _will _ignore House today, because he's sick and he's tired. And also, he hates his guts.

Except for the fact that he doesn't.

* * *

He doesn't know how long it's been before he finally fumbles for his phone and squints at the alerts on the screen. Ten missed calls and five voicemails – good grief.

Between sniffles and coughs, he manages to sit up against the headboard, leaning exhaustedly into the pillows as he begins to sift through his messages.

_Wilson, it's Lisa. Just calling to see if you need anything. Roland's got your cases and everything's under control, so don't worry about a thing. Hope you're feeling better._

Hmm. Well. That was nice.

_Jimmy! The woman whose vagina I'd like to penetrate tonight still thinks I'm a jackass, so…here we are. Hit me up, brotha._

It disgusts Wilson a little that he actually smiled at that one.

_Hey. You still breathing over there? 'Cause ignoring me is really starting to hurt my feelings. Call me back before I assume you've died. Or run off with that hot nurse in peds. _

_Wilson, what the hell. Pick up the damn phone._

_I swear to God, Wilson, if you don't pick up the phone I'm going to come over there myself._

The rest of his missed calls are still from House, who'd apparently given up on leaving messages.

But he obviously hasn't actually shown up, and Wilson's not surprised. The man hadn't been able to sacrifice a night with Cuddy when Wilson had trudged over to his apartment with the news of Sam's departure, so why would he be willing to do it now, just for a stupid cold?

And anyway, he doesn't even _want _House coming over. Because, you know, he hates him now, and all that jazz.

But he has to admit – the concern is nice. Even though it isn't as poignant as it was yesterday, it's still nice.

Except…no. No, no, no. He hates House, remember?

Christ. He should really check his temperature again. And he should really figure out this hate thing, seeing as he's almost halfway through his 10-day limit.

Only he doesn't hate House. He doesn't hate House, because he _can't._

The thermometer beeps. Wilson squints at the number, groans, and reaches for the Tylenol.

If he can't hate House, at least he can still hate life.

* * *

_TBC_


	6. Days 5 & 6

_Half My Life_

_Days 5 & 6_

On day 5, Wilson sleeps.

* * *

On day 6, he wakes in a bit of a daze, but it doesn't take long for the mild feeling of sickness to return him to his senses and remind him where he is. Bleary-eyed, he slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, letting his mind re-focus before running a quick body scan. He certainly feels better, if not still congested and a little weak, and at least his feverish state of near-delirium seems to have abated.

He knows he should really eat something, and maybe make some tea. Pulling a sweatshirt over his thin pajamas, he shuffles towards the kitchen, wondering he still has any more canned soup or –

"Well hey there, Sleeping Beauty."

Wilson yelps, which only turns into coughs as House rolls his eyes from his languid position on the couch. "Relax and breathe, will you?" the diagnostician mutters. "Jesus. You really are a woman."

"House, what the hell?" Wilson finally catches his breath and marches – or rather, stumbles – into the living room, where House has put a random episode of _The L Word_ on mute. "How long have you been here?"

"Since yesterday," House replies matter-of-factly, as if there isn't anything odd about it at all. "I finally convinced Cuddy that your ignoring me couldn't _only _be due to the fact that I'm an ass. Turns out I was right, as usual – your temp was high enough for Paula Deen to use your forehead as a deep-fryer."

Wilson blinks, the situation slowly beginning to dawn on him. "You…you've been taking care of me?"

For all those rare times of genuine concern that Wilson gulps in like pocketfuls of air to a drowning man, he's pretty sure there's never been one like this. House, however, doesn't seem quite as impressed with himself.

"Please, I'm a doctor. Covering you in frozen peas and shoving water down your throat was child's play." He frowns up at Wilson. "You don't remember any of that?"

"I…" Wilson tries, he really does, but all his brain can manage is bits and pieces – tossing and turning in bed, a hand gripping his arm as he stumbles blindly to the bathroom, steady fingers wrapped around his wrist as his pulse beats out of his skin. Try as he might, his fever seems to have erased any treasured memories of House at his side, and eventually he can only ease himself down onto the couch with a bewildered shake of his head.

"Not really," he finishes quietly, hoping his still-hoarse voice buries any evidence of his disappointment.

House seems to hesitate, but in the end he merely shrugs. "Anyway," he says, "it's about time you came to. Been waiting for you to wake up and tell me what the hell you did to my organ."

The sexual innuendo doesn't escape Wilson, who looks at him cautiously. "What?"

House remains stoic as he glances over his shoulder. "My organ," he repeats.

Wilson follows the path of his eyes to the blanket-covered instrument, his sudden understanding exemplified by an apologetic wince. "You weren't using it anymore. It was collecting dust."

"It's still _my _organ, you know. And until I give it back to you or auction it off on Ebay, I expect to be informed of all major changes to its status."

"Duly noted."

His question answered, House now appears to be doing his frowning-scanning thing again, and Wilson's still a little too startled by the recent change in events to protest. House is here, has _been_ here since yesterday, and it doesn't seem to matter that neither Cuddy nor selfish ulterior motives have followed him. If Wilson wasn't still feeling the lingering effects of his apparently horrendous cold, he might have had the strength to pull him into a grateful hug – minus the fact that his inhibition during such notions is an explicit, nonnegotiable clause in the contract of their friendship.

"You look better," House finally says, apparently satisfied, and the shiver that runs down Wilson's spine at the rough but gentle touch of House's hand against his forehead isn't because of chills.

"I _feel _better," he answers, awarding mental kudos to himself for managing to keep his voice steady. "Thanks to you, I'm sure."

"You bet your ass," House grumps, withdrawing his hand. "If it weren't for me, your stupid cat would be eating your rotting flesh by now. Actually, she wouldn't, because _she'd _be dead too without her lousy shots."

"Well, you've certainly achieved your caring quota for the week," Wilson says, hiding a smile.

"Consider us even." House taps his bad leg with his cane, and before Wilson can respond to the subtle implication of his caregiver role during the infarction, the diagnostician stands and grabs his jacket from the arm of the sofa.

Wilson struggles to stand with him. "You're leaving?"

"You're fine now," House retorts, shrugging his jacket onto his shoulders.

"You could still stay," Wilson replies weakly.

House rolls his eyes. "I'm _sure _you'll survive without me this time. If you're hungry, there's soup on the stove."

Wilson's eyebrows shoot up. "You cooked? For me?"

"More like cooked for _me_, and then there were leftovers. Quit flattering yourself." House limps over to the doorway, Wilson following slowly behind. "Cuddy said to tell you to take today and tomorrow off," he continues. "Should be plenty of time to think about which hooker you want to check off your list."

"So you haven't forgotten," Wilson mutters dryly.

"About you promising to screw a hot chick in 10 days? Nope, don't think so." Opening the door to leave, House adds, "You _are _going to keep your promise, right? Because I can name at least three harpy bitches who can testify to your habit of breaking vows."

Wilson glares at him. "Goodbye, House."

"I'll take that as a yes, then." But as he begins to cross the doorway, Wilson stops him.

"House?"

House turns back, and Wilson's not even sure what he meant to say. There are a lot of things he _could _say, he supposes, but most of them wouldn't emerge without the effects of illness or copious amounts of alcohol. So instead, he says the only sane thing that comes to his sober, fever-free mind.

"Thank you."

And with his characteristic curt nod, House is gone.

* * *

_TBC_


	7. Day 7

_Half My Life_

_ Day 7_

On day 7, Wilson reflects.

He can't help but feel as though House took away a part of him when he walked out the door, wading up memories that were half his and tossing them aside like old medical files – irrelevant, and just like all the rest. He'd spent the rest of yesterday recuperating between lingering nose-blows and coughs, but the extra sick day has given him more time to turn over the recent events in his head. While he still can't recall most of what happened, bits and pieces have slowly drifted back to him, illuminating the dark recesses of his mind where the scattered remnants of his mental shoebox still lay bare.

He remembers, for instance, that it wasn't until sometime in the evening that House had shown up, because by the time he'd heard the click of the door unlocking and the familiar gruff voice calling his name, there was only darkness beyond the thin shield of the curtains. And he remembers, too, the panicked but steady hand against his forehead, how the protective blankets had been yanked away just as he'd been pulled into the feverish shadows of his dreams.

And the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders – what had taken House so _long_?

_I swear to God, Wilson, if you don't pick up the phone I'm going to come over there myself._

At the time, it hadn't surprised Wilson that House hadn't immediately barged into the condo, if only because the diagnostician had better things to do than to take on an additional runny nose outside of the clinic. But what better things could there have been, really, if checking on his best friend wasn't at the top of the list?

As if Wilson doesn't already know.

_I finally convinced Cuddy that your ignoring me couldn't _only _be due to the fact that I'm an ass._

And how long had that taken, exactly? If House hadn't come over until the evening, then it had probably taken a very long time. But maybe it hadn't been Cuddy getting in the way – after all, she'd been kind enough to call and offer to help. Maybe the problem had been House himself, torn between sex on the one hand and Wilson's well-being on the other.

He doesn't mean to sound ungrateful, because he's not. House had_ eventually_ come over (and so graciously saved him from his flesh-eating cat), and maybe that's just the way life is supposed to go.

Their history together would seem to agree. When Wilson thought he'd have to endure the liver transplant alone, he'd ultimately fallen asleep and woken up to the same pair of grave, concerned, beautiful blue eyes. Even when he'd asked House to risk his life for Amber's, a request for which he'd never openly apologized but would always regret, the diagnostician had consented. There'd been no need for Wilson to explain that Amber was his last hope, no need to justify his irrationality with his burning desire to share his love for House, even if masked as love for another.

In the end, House always comes through.

But on second thought…this situation feels different.

It _had _been different, because for the first time, House's initial hesitations had nothing to do with his own internal turmoil. For the first time, House had put another before himself – before Wilson. Whether Cuddy had explicitly told him not to come over or House simply hadn't wanted to leave, it didn't matter.

Either way, everything's changed.

* * *

Wilson doesn't know why he's surprised.

It's not like this is anything new. First of all, he has no right to expect House to come running to his side at every sniffle and cough. He never has, and it doesn't matter that Wilson spent a good portion of his third marriage doing a hell of a lot more than just checking House's temperature – nor does it matter that he'd do it all over again in an instant.

And secondly, it's not as if this is all just happening now. Things changed the moment Cuddy showed up at House's door, replacing his Vicodin with a long-awaited confession. Every touch and kiss and fragment of love that Wilson imagined he'd granted her – each one of them made their impact, shifting the axis of their friendship until Cuddy was safely on top and Wilson's already-precarious balance left him teetering on the edge. Maybe he'd tried to ignore it, pretending that he didn't care when he hadn't heard about the smallpox case, and Cuddy's mother, and whatever the hell else he'd suddenly been excluded from.

Maybe it's even his own damn fault.

He wants to blame Sam, but he knows that wouldn't be fair. He'd let it go on longer than it should have, some twisted logic in the back of his mind making him believe that House might get jealous, or some other ridiculous crap that had seemingly made sense. And it had been Wilson, not Sam, who'd asked House to move out – far be it for him to actually try and move on with his life.

But it hadn't worked then, and it isn't working now, and all that's left is House and Cuddy floating around in some crazy happy Wizard of Oz bubble while Wilson watches from the ground, alone in a sea of cheering strangers.

It isn't being alone that scares him, because he's always been alone. What scares him is that there's always been a reason – from both their perspectives – to reach out for House whenever he drifted away.

But the view is blurred, Wilson imagines, from the safety of the bubble. Sparkly, even. And why should House ever want to come back down?

* * *

Silently, he decides to give House an ultimatum of his own. He stares at his cell phone on the coffee table, fingers sliding restlessly through Sarah's fur as he waits for a call. He doesn't care if the first words out of House's mouth are that Cuddy threatened to withhold sex again, or if he's too busy for more than a "Hey, how are ya?" before getting distracted by something else. Wilson just wants to hear his voice, to be given _any _indication that he's still on House's mind.

So he waits. And he waits. Sarah fidgets for a while on his lap, finally leaping away when his half-hearted petting no longer holds her interest.

He wonders, briefly, if this is what House felt like, waiting for Stacy to call and sob out apologies in the weeks after she left.

Only she never called, and neither does House.

And waiting gets old.

* * *

_TBC_


	8. Day 8

_Half My Life_

_Day 8_

**Author's Note: **My apologies if you reviewed Chapter 7 and didn't get a reply yet...for some reason, the site has stopped e-mailing all of my alerts to me, including those for reviews and others' updated stories. Boo :( But know that they are much appreciated! As for Chapter 8, I have a feeling that this is not what most readers have been hoping for, but all I can say is please bear with me! And finally, the song "Close to You" remains property of The Carpenters.

* * *

On day 8, Wilson accepts.

It almost sounds like he's going through the five stages of grief, which may or may not be a decent metaphor depending on one's point of view, but it's not really like that. What happened was he'd woken up early that morning to head back to work, his attempt at normality tainted by the exhaustion of waiting and disappointment and heartache. But when he'd passed by House's office and peeked through the door, slightly startled by the sight of the diagnostician deep in a passionate kiss with his boss, there was this magical _click _inside his head that made him stop and refocus, and _realize. _

Normally such a scene would have been like a dagger through the pieces of his already-broken heart, but it suddenly dawns on him what a selfish bastard he's been. Maybe his cold had given him a legitimate excuse to continuously wallow in self-pity, and maybe it hadn't. But what he does understand now – a bit ironically, as most would say that this ought to be _House's _next epiphany – is that it isn't always about him.

All this mental energy hating House, hating Cuddy, hating HouseandCuddy and CuddyandHouse, and maybe even hating himself just a little bit. And to what end? He knows better than that, has always known better than that, and House knew_ that_ when he'd devised the 10-day challenge in the first place. It should've been a slap to Wilson's face – _quit being so pathetic, and wake up and live your life._

With a mantra like that, maybe he should've marched straight into House's office, asked Cuddy if he could cut in, and planted his lips right on House's in an act of totally insane spontaneity.

He doesn't, of course. In another time and place, he might have, but not today. Not today, because today, House is _happy. _Standing there, arms around Cuddy's waist and eyes shut against the world as he breathes her in and loves her, House is happy.

There isn't a lot that Wilson lives for. Sure, there's his job, and the surge of joy he gets from delivering news of successful treatments and remissions. And of course there's his family, and the fleeting glimpses of Danny's smile whenever Wilson visits.

But above it all, there's House. Anything and everything about him, really, but it's mainly House's happiness – or at least, the prospect of attaining that happiness – that keeps Wilson going. Most people forget it's there, the way they forget that he wasn't born a cripple or a doctor or even an ass. He wasn't born miserable, either – things like that take time to build up and unfold, and even Wilson hasn't been witness to it all. But at the end of the day, all he really wants is for House to be happy.

So what if it had taken House a little longer to make it to the condo when Wilson was sick? Of course his crazy, over-analytical mind had decided to make a huge freakin' deal about it. House has a girlfriend now, someone whom he can love and who can love him back, exactly the kind of life that Wilson and Nolan and everyone else was hoping he would find. He can't just expect that things will stay the same, nor should he want them to. He should _want _this kind of change for House.

And if House's happiness means letting him go, then that's just a small price that Wilson is no stranger to paying.

He peels his eyes away from the office, suddenly afraid that he'll be visible behind the translucent glass door, and walks quietly away.

* * *

"_Why do birds…suddenly appear…every time…you are near? Just like me…they long to be…close to you…"_

Wilson can't help but smile as the door opens, though he doesn't look up from his paperwork at the obvious intruder.

"You're singing," he says.

"Your tie is lame," comes the retort. "Thanks for reminding me about state-the-obvious day." House plops down into the empty chair across from Wilson's desk, humming the familiar tune.

Wilson scribbles a few last signatures, finally meeting his eyes. "As long as we're celebrating," he says, "here's another. You're happy."

"Are you still drugged up on Robitussin?" House huffs sarcastically. "If you _really_ wanted a half-decent high, you've got a prescription pad right in front of you."

"Why yes, I'm feeling much better, thanks for asking." Wilson puts down his pen, inching forward in his seat. "I was being serious, you know."

House frowns. "Does this have something to do with you spying on me and my woman this morning?" he asks, and Wilson tries not to blush at getting caught. "Felt like I was in a porno – _not _that I didn't enjoy that thought."

"It just never really occurred to me before, that's all."

House's frown deepens. "You've been practically quoting Confucius for me this entire time, and my being happy has _'never really occurred to you before'_?"

"I gave you advice and support because you asked for it. But seeing you there today…" Wilson shrugs, not totally sure if the gesture is also meant to be apologetic. "I don't know. Things just seemed to suddenly make sense, I guess."

Taking advantage of House's silence, he continues, "I mean – you _are _happy, aren't you?"

House doesn't flinch. "Are _you_?"

"Don't deflect."

"Who says I'm deflecting?" House begins to toss his canes between his hands, the familiar pendulum that swings in time with the gears churning in his head. "Maybe I care if you're happy. Maybe I'm still waiting for you to come back and tell me you've banged a hot – "

"Oh, God, House, don't start with that," Wilson groans exasperatedly. "I mean it. I need to know if you're happy, because if you're not…"

House waits expectantly, his cane suddenly still as he holds Wilson's gaze.

"…Then I can't be either," Wilson murmurs at last.

It takes a few moments for House to finally nod – either in true understanding or mere appeasement, Wilson isn't sure which.

"I'm happy," he says, and Wilson's stomach flips at the gravity in his eyes. "Cuddy makes me happy, okay? Now quit worrying over me and start living your own damn life for a change."

Wilson nods slowly back. It may seem like he's waving a white flag, but he isn't – not really. He hasn't stopped loving House, will _never _stop loving House, but this is where it ends. As long as House is happy, that's all that Wilson will ever need.

This isn't resignation, this is understanding. This is _acceptance._

"Okay," he says softly, and lets the smallest hint of a smile cross his face. "Okay."

* * *

_TBC_


	9. Day 9

_Half My Life_

_Day 9_

On day 9, Wilson fulfills the challenge.

It starts with dragging the kennel out of the closet, the one he'd purchased shortly after inheriting Sarah, and gently nudging the cat inside. And it continues with leaving early for work, kennel in tow as he makes a quick detour to a certain coffee shop.

As far as he's concerned, if he's really going to move on, he needs to go all the way.

She's there when he enters, probably adding unnecessary whipped cream to some other guy's coffee when she turns around. Their eyes meet, startling her, and she hands her customer his drink without a word.

"I haven't seen you around," she says as he approaches the counter, and the apologetic smile he offers in response is merely a matter of skill. No one manages to score three wives on words alone.

"I've been a little under the weather lately," he explains, letting her inevitable sympathy erase the awkwardness of the other night from her memory. "Feeling much better now, though."

"Poor baby! I'll bet you could use a pick-me-up – can I get you your usual?"

Her own smile mirrors his in experience, and he watches as she turns around to grab an empty coffee cup. He notes the curves beneath the tightness of her skirt and the way her golden hair sashays against her back, and he welcomes the familiarity of it all. Learning to love grimly-lined lips and a battered leg hasn't undermined his appreciation of feminine beauty, it seems.

He checks the contents under the lid when she slides the cup over, looking up from the foamy whipped cream to meet her gaze.

"Would you like to get dinner with me tonight?" he asks, and he's only slightly taken aback by her subsequent shrug.

"It's not really dinner I'm interested in," she replies smoothly.

He pretends to study her figure as he fingers the cup in his hands, knowing that he should just walk away. This isn't what he does, randomly picking up baristas who lure him in with whipped cream and smiles. Sure, he knows all the tricks, but he's always used them with thoughts of a future in mind. The idea of family has always appealed to him, and even in his more shameful moments his infidelity has never been only about the sex.

But the point is to be spontaneous. Have some fun, forget about consequences, make a woman feel beautiful and at the same time make himself feel important, too. Is he really taking advantage of her if this is exactly what she wants?

For House, it's about getting back in the game. For Wilson, it's simply time to let go.

No regrets.

He meets her eyes again, with a smile that has never once let him down. "Your place, or mine?"

A few minutes later, back in the car with plans made for tonight, he fishes for his cell phone as he heads in the direction of the hospital.

"Sandy," he greets, eyeing the kennel beside him on the front seat. "You know anyone in the department who'd be interested in having a cat?"

* * *

It's strange, coming home to an empty condo without Sarah running up to wrap her body affectionately around his legs. He hadn't been sure that anyone would want the responsibility of a diabetic pet, but it turned out that Sandy's sister was an animal lover who'd been more than happy to take her in.

Even in Sarah's absence, he's not really alone. The barista – Anna – is already three steps ahead of him, seductively beckoning him to follow her into the bedroom.

House is well aware of his plans for the evening. Wilson hadn't told him explicitly, but that hadn't been necessary. It rarely is, where House is concerned.

"Cuddy's on Mommy duty tonight," the diagnostician had said, poking his head through Wilson's door. "Some reading corner thing at the library – as if Rachel even knows what a book is. Wanna do pizza? Beer? Sex?"

"Can't tonight. Sorry."

The subsequent frown disappeared almost as quickly as it formed. "You got a date?"

"Define 'date.'"

Wilson had followed that remark with a bit of a cryptic, playful smile, but somehow House's approving smirk hadn't been as comforting as he'd hoped.

"Atta boy, Wilson." And with that, House was gone.

So here Wilson is, whether he wants to be or not. There's no cat to remind him that he's single and lonely and depressed, no time for a beer to help him mask the reality of the beautiful stranger standing before him. Even the organ, still buried beneath the blanket, is hidden in the shadows of the night.

"I brought whipped cream," she murmurs into his ear, and he swallows at the sudden dryness in his mouth.

"Anna – "

"Shh." Gently, she takes the end of his tie, pulling him through the open bedroom door. "Will it be the usual, Dr. Wilson?" she continues playfully. "Or do you feel like trying something new tonight?"

Her eyes are brown. Thank God for that.

* * *

He wakes around 7:30 in the morning, just before his alarm goes off. Automatically he reaches out, hand poised to stroke her hair and pull her body closer to his, but all he finds is a note.

_Had to go to work – early prep. Thanks for an amazing night._

_xoxo_

_A._

The haunting initial makes him cringe, but the deed is done, and the truth of the matter is that it really _had_ been amazing. He'll probably never look at whipped cream the same way again, but hey, there's a first time for everything. House, he's sure, will be proud.

He doesn't intend for this to happen again, of course – Anna probably already has her eye on the next customer she wants to seduce, and he's ready to start looking for some more promising options. But that's the point, isn't it? For him to be ready?

If House can find happiness, then surely Wilson can be happy, too.

No more pining after blue eyes and a limp for which he'd do anything to take on as his own. No more cat to curl up in the perpetually empty place beside him on the couch. No more staring at the phone, waiting for calls that will never come.

No more regrets.

* * *

_TBC_


	10. Day 10

_Half My Life_

_Day 10_

On day 10, Wilson officially brings the challenge to a close.

"Well," he says, walking into House's office, "I did it."

House relinquishes a small smirk, though he doesn't look up from his poker game – or muted porno, or whatever it is that's so captured his attention. "You got yourself laid," he says matter-of-factly. "I'm proud of you."

"Aren't you going to ask me for details?" Wilson prods him impatiently.

"Now look who's being needy," House snorts, finally meeting his gaze. "You did it, it's done, who cares?"

"Hey, this was _your _thing. You're the one who dared me to do it in the first place – hell, you made me _promise _to do it."

"True. So, what, you want me to send out a press release? James Wilson, M.D. and veteran panty peeler, fulfills his sexual obligations right on schedule?"

"I…" Wilson wants to argue that it wasn't only about the sex, that that's just what it took to make him feel like he could get back in the game, but House already knows that - doesn't he?

"Look, I'm sure you and little Jimmy there had a _fabulous _time," House continues, going back to his computer screen. "But I'm busy."

"House, you're _never _busy," Wilson retorts, rolling his eyes. "The last time you thought I slept with someone, the first thing you wanted was details. What's changed?"

"I think the bigger question here is, why the hell do you care so much?" House closes his laptop screen, annoyed. "She e-mailed me about lunch _again_," he mutters, and despite being able to hear, Wilson wonders if he's really just talking to himself. "That's three days in a row."

"That's what normal couples _do_, House. They _eat_ together. Like you and…"

Wilson stops himself just in time, not trusting the initial mix of exasperation and sarcasm in his voice to continue into his next words.

"Like me and who?" House frowns.

_Like you and I used to do._

But House is right. What's done is done, the past is the past, and Wilson is a fool for thinking that any of it matters. "Forget it. My point is…"

Damn it. What _was_ his point, again?

"For God's sake, Wilson." House stands and limps his way around his desk until he's face-to-face with the oncologist, whose hands-on-hips pose no longer appears to be working in his usual attempt at feigned toughness. "You got laid, you moved on, congratulations. What else is it that you want me to say?"

Wilson would have laughed at that, if only he had the heart.

"Well…" He finally lets his arms hang limp – dejected, but not defeated. "Are you happy for me?"

"Sure," House shrugs. "If you're ready to take on your fourth harpy bitch extravaganza, then yeah, I'm happy for you."

"Jesus," Wilson mutters, now feeling more angry than crestfallen. "You make the biggest deal about this stupid 10-day…whatever this was…and then when I finally do what you want – "

"Hey, don't make this about _me. _Your pathetic plight of self-pity had nothing to _do _with me. You wanna know what the point is? The point is, you're ready to get over Sam and find some other hot chick to fill that cold, dark void in your sad little heart. And whether Mrs. James Wilson IV is just another harpy bitch or actually your ticket to happiness is your own damn choice – not mine."

House is now directly in front of Wilson, who quivers both at the thinly-veiled care in House's words and at the hot breath against his cheek. Without thinking, he lets his arm drift slowly upwards, his fingers tentatively outstretched. Another few inches and he could run them through House's hair, across his stubble and around the back of his neck.

A small step forward and they could kiss.

But instead, his arm falls back to his side. "You're right," he says softly. "You're absolutely right."

"Were you going to hit me?" House asks, his seriousness softened by amused and slightly incredulous curiosity. He takes a few steps back, reinstating the usual distance between them.

Wilson shakes his head. "Of course not."

"You totally were," House smirks. "Maybe you should have."

"Everything you said was true, House. I just…needed a little push to remind myself that I _can _be happy. And ironically that push came from _you,_ a miserable limping twerp, but…I guess being with Cuddy really has changed you for the better."

House shrugs. "Depends on who you ask."

"You're happy, House, just like you said. If you ask me...I've never been more proud."

Wilson walks to the door then, knowing that there's nothing more to say or do here. If this isn't acceptance, then he doesn't know what is.

_No more regrets._

Challenge to get laid: Accomplished. Confidence from said challenge: Good enough for now.

Moving on: …Well. The man is half his life, after all. He'll get there when he gets there.

He pauses as his hand reaches the doorknob. "Thank you, House," he says quietly.

There's no reply, but with his back still turned, Wilson manages a small smile to himself as he opens the door to leave.

* * *

_Epilogue to come_


	11. Epilogue

_Half My Life_

_Epilogue (Day 10, continued)_

The way House sees it, he'd given Wilson an ultimatum.

The terms hadn't exactly been clear, but since when is he ever straightforward? He never offers information willingly – glimpses into the workings of his mind are privileged, rare, and hard-earned. Even his fellows are forced to fumble through his twisty metaphors during differentials, groaning as he sits back and enjoys their frustrated confusion. If you want to know what Dr. Gregory House is thinking, you can either work at it or you can leave.

So he hadn't told Wilson the point of getting laid in ten days, partly for his own smug satisfaction and partly because, for all of his blunt honesty, the truth of it all is just one of those forbidden facts of life that he isn't allowed to say.

The truth is that it wasn't so much about a random fuck as it was a chance for Wilson to see what's always been right in front of him. And the truth is that, as much as House had devised the plan for Wilson to figure out his life, he had also, in characteristic selfishness, devised it for himself to move on.

Life had been easier when it had made _sense_, when _Wilson_ had been the one with his Sams and Bonnies and Julies and Ambers and whoever the hell else made it into his bed. It had been rational for House to justify his silence then, to make the decision not to screw with the order of the universe. But when the apocalypse had come sooner than intended, House had suddenly found himself with Cuddy while Wilson, of triple-marriage and multiple-affair fame, had suddenly found himself alone.

Not merely alone, but rock-bottom _depressed. _

It wasn't the first time a woman had told James Wilson to go fuck himself, and the man usually figured out ways to deal. But to try to find solace in a half-dead diabetic animal was just…House didn't even have the vocabulary to describe it, actually, which clearly said enough. Wilson was supposed to have turned to beer, or drugs, or hookers…or friends.

Granted, House had fucked up on his end there. But what should he have done, with Cuddy on the way over just as Wilson had showed up? It was a precarious line he walked with her – one misstep and he would fall.

He can't afford to fall; not this time. Because other than Cuddy, there's only one other person on the planet he knows he could find it in himself to love.

And since Wilson isn't an option, Cuddy is his only chance.

There have certainly been times when he's _thought _Wilson might be option, but they've been fleeting, shaky, and not exactly compatible with his trusty foundation of logical reasoning. Sure, he's left hints – some subtle, and some blaring – and more than once he's second-guessed the nature of the murky depths in Wilson's eyes. But what can you do, really, when the only guy you'd be willing to go gay for is busy floundering around from vagina to vagina?

Not that House can blame him, but…damn. He'd really thought the organ had meant more than that. He'd really thought twenty _years _had meant more than that.

And then Cuddy had happened, and Sam had left, and the opportunity was there and House had snatched it. It was a perfectly rational win-win, and he'd actually been pretty pleased with himself for coming up with it. Either they'd end up together or they wouldn't, but either way, neither would be alone.

It was one last shot, he'd decided. Ten days for Wilson to wake up and smell the damn roses, or ten days for House to get the fuck over it and devote himself to Cuddy once and for all.

So he'd tried to leave hints, at least once a day. Subtle hints, maybe, but hints nonetheless. He'd even saved the poor bastard from practically dying, for God's sake – leave it to Wilson to turn a cold into the freakin' plague. He'd wanted to go over earlier than he had, actually, but Cuddy's bitching had left him wobbling on his tightrope and he'd needed extra time to regain his balance again.

He'd almost thought, in the midst of it all, that there was hope. It's incredible, what happens to the mind in the throes of a dangerously high fever. The way Wilson had called his name, the way he'd leaned into House's tentative fingers brushing against his cheek, the way he'd flailed and kicked the sheets until their hands had met…in spite of the obvious effects of illness, House had almost felt more love in those moments than Cuddy had ever given him.

But the next day, Wilson hadn't remembered a damn thing, so House hadn't brought it up then.

And he certainly isn't going to bring it up now.

* * *

So here they are. Wilson's done sulking, House is done preaching, and the oncologist's hand is on the doorknob as he prepares to leave.

Wilson is actually thanking him. _Thanking _him. For what, God only knows. He seems like he might be waiting for an answer, but House has nothing left to say.

But even in silence, everybody lies.

Because he could say a lot of things. He could say that it's been twenty years and he's forgotten what it's like to live without him. He could say that it's been twenty years and he doesn't know how he _could _have lived without him. He could say that Cuddy is just a backup plan, an alternate solution, one he'd prefer not to have to choose.

He could say that he loves him.

But he doesn't say any of those things, and Wilson quietly turns the handle.

_He would not stay for me, and who can wonder? _

House lets the incoming noise from the hallway blur his thoughts, trying not to see this as the very bitter end. This isn't the last time, these aren't the final moments. There will be years more of Wilson, if House doesn't fuck it up.

But this _is_ the last time he'll let himself have hope.

Wilson takes the first step, and in a split second of irrationality House almost reaches out to make him stay.

But he stops, steadying his limbs. He feels his heart beating and his leg screaming, and he purses his lips instead.

He grips his thigh. He takes a breath. He waits.

He watches half his life walk out the door.

* * *

_Fin_


End file.
